


Maybe That's Enough

by Swithe_Ist



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst, Canon Fix, Consequences, Facing One's Demons, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, no suicide this time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 09:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swithe_Ist/pseuds/Swithe_Ist
Summary: This time? Henrik Hanssen leads Gaskell back to face justice.





	1. Talking Him Down

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing stopping Henrik from being more active in canon is his contrived poisoning. So I've removed that obstacle - let's see what shakes out.
> 
> This is mostly written from Henrik's POV, though some chapters might be from others' perspective, particularly Sacha.
> 
> It's also a work-in-progress, so I'll tweak things now and then (not the story itself, just the other stuff: spelling and tags and w/e)

Henrik swerved into the woods and parked as soon as he could. His phone's map had indicated this was the nearest body of water. John had to be here – _his impatience proving an asset for once,_ thought Henrik bitterly as he exited his vehicle.

Thankfully there was noone around at this time of morning and no noise but the distant buzz of traffic and the occasional twittering of birdlife. Paired with the golden twilight of the sun, the scene was positively nauseating when he really thought about it. Here he was, tracking down a man with whom he'd spent so much time, given so much love and what felt like part of his soul like a common criminal across this twee idyll...

 _'Like a'_ , he scoffed at himself as he went his way through the brush. His eyes darted around seeking any sign of movement, or better yet, water. _Murderer. Like a murderer. -Is- a murderer._

“John?” he breathed as he quickly spun to face a cracking sound. Nothing.

Though no substance clouded his thinking, it was as if the sight of Lana ( _so called_ ) laying bloodied on the wet-lab counter had been a thunderbolt that struck his mind and set it ablaze. It seemed like every conceivable thought, positive and negative, flooded his skull, filling it with a cacophony that he felt pressing against the very back of his eyes. He groped about mentally for some pocket of stillness so that he might get his bearings better.

_The lake. Must find the lake._

Lo and behold, the sound of a pigeon taking flight drew his eyes towards what could only be water. Henrik jogged into a clearing and down a bank was relieved to find not only water, but John himself. He was already submerged to the waist, arms spread wide as he stood waiting. Henrik's footsteps came to a halt as he emerged on the wooden pier and John slowly turned to face him, grinning.

“John!”

“You came.”

“Come out of the water, John,” panted Henrik.

“They'll never understand who we are. People like us. Take risks. Who're brave enough to try the things we've tried. You came, Henrik, because you and me – we're the same. I've sacrificed myself just like you!”

He could tell from the crazed look in his eye and his grandiose statements that he was ill. Yet it took a surprising amount of effort to stifle the urge to scream at him. He'd spent the entire car-ride savouring the chance to give John the bollocking he deserved.

Instead of launching into bellicose accusation, Henrik swallowed down hard and yielded to his better nature _—_ his professional nature. The image of Lana's prone body flashed back into his mind in full technicolour.

“Stop. Wait. Just... wait.” he choked out weakly.

“Come with me, Henrik.”

Henrik stared dumbly as John turned and waded a few steps back to shore. It wasn't an unexpected request. He knew in his heart of hearts that John was hoping to finish what they had started all those years ago. Their eyes met and Henrik nodded sadly in acknowledgement. He glanced back downwards at the pier and shuffled to the edge.

“In a minute,” he murmured and sat down heavily, “Alright?”

It would be insulting to John's intelligence, psychotic or not, to pretend that he wasn't tempted or that he had some higher ground. Better to meet in the middle. He recalled that fateful night in college and the hollow void that had overwhelmed him; he mulled it over as he watched John's posture relax. He'd relented. _Good_. Henrik tilted his head slightly to the space next to him and fossicked in his pockets while John started towards him curiously.

“It's over, Henrik.”

“I know.” Henrik's hand emerged from the inside of his jacket with his prize. A crumpled, half-empty box of cigarettes. He had had them stashed in his car since... well, since it's last service. This year's strain had, to his chagrin, pushed him back into bad habits and Roxanna had not quite managed to pierce his armour as deeply as she'd thought when she'd cornered him to seek therapy.

 _She hadn't the chance. She'd have figured it out eventually. She always did,_ floated bitterly through his mind.

John carefully lifted himself out of the water, sitting a safe distance along from Henrik. He looked absurd in his expensive suit, soaked halfway. He stunk too, of whatever foul substance was mouldering out there in the turbid soup. _Duck shit._ Henrik winced askance at him as he played with the cigarette he'd slid out of it's package.

“Nicked,” said John mirthlessly.

“Mm.” Henrik placed it in his mouth and lit it before he offered one to John. John didn't notice. His eyes were transfixed on the one in Henrik's mouth.

 _Typical_ , thought Henrik, _take everything. It's not enough you've taken Roxanna, countless lives and my professional dignity – take the fag too. What's mine is yours._

He lowered his hand and sighed as he shoved the box back in his jacket. After a few puffs he passed the cigarette, rolling it slightly in his slender fingers. “Not exactly handcrafted and bespoke, but there you go,”

“Cancer's cancer.” John clearly regretted his pithy response the second he inhaled as he spluttered and screwed his face up. Henrik had deliberately bought himself the cheapest, nastiest cigarettes he could buy to punish himself for doing so. He was glad he did.

The two men sunk into a tense silence. A dragonfly buzzed about their legs. Henrik let one of his long limbs settle into the water. How best to broach the subject without immediately yelling? He found his eyes flickering towards John's lap where one of his hands rested. There was a faint sheen over them still from the water, but he realised despite this, there was a ruddy tinge by his wrist.

Blood.

From Lana no doubt.

“I'm sorry.” he said finally.

“What?”  
“Lana.” A familiar vacancy slipped back over John's face. That look haunted him over the years. It worried him relentlessly and now he knew how idiotic he had been, that it was the key – it was this that should have caused him to realise John's illness earlier. “I couldn't save Fredrik either,” ventured Henrik further, “You're right _—_ we're the same.”

“Broken, weak, cowardly Henrik.” John murmured at length, looking out across the water. He was thinking about that fateful night. Henrik took back his cigarette and puffed at it, trying to hide his irritation. “Broken, weak, cowardly John.” John's mouth continued to move, saying the same words over, only silently to himself.

Henrik reflected on their similarities – the good and bad. John wasn't entirely wrong to compare, it was just the truth was uncomfortable. How could it be they had grown so alike? Especially as when they had met in college he had been so bewildered by the idea someone so radically opposite to himself could show interest in befriending him.

Friends. Mm.

He glanced at John who stared vacantly across the water, his pale blue eyes unblinking, his mouth slack. Yet despite their similarities, sitting here, he felt like he sat by an alien. A complete stranger. A brutal sociopath. How did he not see this in him before? Was it their superficial similarities that had lead him to blindness? Or something more worrying? After all, he himself had been accused of being borderline sociopathic and lacking empathy by that drunkard psychologist.

He took a long drag off the cigarette and passed it to John, nudging him aware. John took it, but didn't smoke. Instead he stared down at the ashes crumbling into his soaked lap.

“You're not broken, Henrik.” tumbled out of John's mouth, “You're ill. You always were.”

Searching his blank expression, Henrik thought he could see a small flicker of life behind John's eyes.

“Lacking seratonin.”

“Yes. I'm ill,” Henrik agreed softly. He could only dare to hope this was headed where he hoped.

There was another long silence. Henrik swallowed and idly fiddled with the cigarette packet. He knew it would be fruitless to prompt him again, so his mind wandered. How long would it take the police or anyone to find the two of them? He hadn't thought to let on where he was going when he'd left Holby and it gnawed at him.

 _Right, phone is... in the car,_ he thought, glancing back.

“Am I delusional Henrik?” said John suddenly. A furrow was forming above his brow, “Where do I stop? Do I just give up?”

Unfamiliar with the context and confused by his disjointed questions, Henrik pursed his lips slightly and chose one to focus on.

“You could.” he allowed, voice soft and raspy, “End it all this way. It doesn't help anything, though. I realised that before.”

John turned his head slowly to gaze at Henrik's hands.

“Why did I save you, Henrik?” said John, sounding confused. Clearly he was seeking in Henrik an answer he couldn't find in himself.

“Because.” Was all Henrik could offer for a moment. His heart felt like it was going to explode from the great crashing of conflicted emotions. “Because you cared for me, I think.”

The subject they had skirted around for years. Henrik dreaded even to touch upon it. The same cold emptiness seeped into his bones that the thought of Roxanna had conjured in him decades before. He felt it infinitely more appropriate now. Henrik's eyes flickered nervously over to John.

“Cared,” echoed John. He couldn't work out if it was distaste or discomfort that lent his words the quaver they held. His face had become blank again.

“Yes. You told me you wouldn't let me go,” he said, showing his working as it apparently didn't compute for John. His mind drifted to the memory. John had seemed so vulnerable then. So small.

“I don't care about anything. Anyone.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Because over the last thirty years, John, you've certainly given the opposite impression.”

“I'm a good liar.”

“No you aren't _—_ er, yes you are,” amended Henrik, finding himself in an odd state of annoyance and weary amusement at himself, “Look, I know you, John. I mean, I don't know you at all, but I _know_ you. Somehow. You said it yourself. We're the same. I know you care. Or that you did.”

John finally lifted his eyes a little higher. Almost meeting his.

“Was that supposed to make sense?” said he, sarcastically.

“You know exactly what I meant, John.”

He laughed mirthlessly and gestured with his hands. “You're right, Henrik. You don't know me at all. What I've done. You wouldn't sound so self-satisfied comparing us if you did.”

 _You killed Roxanna. You sacrificed god-knows-how-many to save Lana._ Henrik's thin lips tightened into a grimace as his amusement abruptly faded.

“It doesn't satisfy me at all.”

He was fighting a losing battle to hold back the tide of bile rising in his throat when he was spared the effort by John making a sudden movement. Henrik reflexively shrunk back a fraction, just in case. He noticed that John was trembling a bit now as fire flared up inside him, eyes bright with sudden zeal.

“They threatened us, Henrik. What could I do? I had to complete my work and they would have stopped it all.”

“John...”

“How many lives would've been saved if the neoconduit _—_ ”

“John! I know all this,” said Henrik sharply.

“Then you know I did what I had to! I had no choice. None. You would've done the same, you told me as much.”

“...did I now?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes. I know you understand. You always have.”

Exhale.

Henrik closed his eyes and focused on his breath, tuning him out. He had no idea what John had misconstrued as approval for murder. He could barely recall the time before Roxanna died except for her smiling face. Laughing. Kissing his cheek. _Perhaps John's hallucinating?_ He shoved Roxanna's face out of his mind. Too much pain.

“You're right,” he mumbled. Appeasement was not his favourite way of dealing with mental illness, but John was on edge and he was barely keeping his own composure. Henrik lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, sure that the new stinging sensation meant there were tears starting to form. He was right.

John nodded sagely. He moved to hand the cigarette back to Henrik, a look of sympathetic concern passing over his face.

“I know. It's painful, our burden. But I'm glad we can share it together. You and me.”

“Mm.”


	2. We're Dying Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henrik struggles to see the light.

Bright rings of light searing through his eyelids brought Henrik out of his uncomfortable reverie. John was gazing down into the water, tracing his foot past some rotted plant matter floating on the surface. The ripples had him hypnotised. He couldn't blame him. Apathy had quenched his rage back to something managable and he had sunk himself into brooding silence, for how long he couldn't say.

Henrik looked down and saw his cigarette was spent and squashed the remnants out on the damp wooden board next to him. The movement attracted John's attention.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

Henrik swallowed.

“I just need... let me enjoy this first, please.”

“Take your time.”

“Thank you, John.”

Henrik glanced behind him in the direction of his car. He'd left his phone on the passanger's seat. _Idiot_. Despite feeling like he knew what he was doing earlier, the more time passed, the more he felt control slipping out of his grasp, like he was sinking into a pit. John's paranoia surely had him suspicious by now. He glanced back at him, studying him.

“It's... hard to believe this is it, you know. After everything,” murmured Henrik.

“Yeah.”

“It's not how I imagined it.”

“It's peaceful, though. Isn't it? D'ye hear the magpies?”

“Yes, lovely. Roxanna used to love to listen to them of a morning, do you remember?” he ventured, unable to stop himself.  
“You're right,” said John eventually. His gaze lifted to the trees around them.

With soft eyes, Henrik cast his mind back to some ancient holiday they'd all taken together. He could see her clearly her with mug in hands, looking out across the wooded hills. The cool breeze bore the flowery scent of creeping jasmine up to the balcony, to his nose. An unkempt David was strewn against Rox, half-asleep still and John was just indoors – out of sight, though he could hear the familiar rustling of his movement..

“I know it was her time, John,” Henrik rasped, his stomach turning over, “but I wish... I wish she hadn't.”

John nods just slightly.

“She knew too. She was so graceful. So peaceful. Those eyes of hers always told the truth,” said John wistfully. He scratched at his jaw.

“—She always knew the truth,” Henrik hastily agreed, “What was right.”

“I told her it all, made sure she knew _properly._ Our love. She was so brave when she left. Don't worry. She's immortal now. She will always be remembered, always.” Before the tears even registered he found his cheeks streaked with warm dampness so Henrik sniffed and rubbed at his face. John had gall to speak specifically of her death. And keep speaking. “She was always so special. We knew it, didn't we? That's why you brought her to us. Don't be sad, Henrik, you were right.”

“Yes. I could never hide the truth from her.”

Something resembling guilt was starting to creep over John's face though Henrik couldn't see it through his blurred vision. John kept silent, turning his attention back to the murky water. Years ago, John might've attempted physical comfort. A pat on the shoulder – something. Henrik wiped at his face, finding himself wishing for anything but the thick dead air between them.

“It's really calling you, isn't it,” he mumbled, following his gaze to the water.

John nodded slowly.

“You were never nostalgic.”

“We should've died,” he said simply.

“Probably.”

“Your mum had the right idea.”

Henrik's breath hitched as another wave of misery washed over him. Family. Roxanna. All he loved was gone. _Keep your distance_ , a voice in the back of his mind warned him, _don't get carried away_.

He shot back, _What can I do? There's no way anyone will show up and I can't get out of this without him turning on me and making things immeasurably more difficult. What's the point anyhow? John's right, it's over. I have nothing._

John slid back down into the water, causing Henrik to feel a jolt of panic.

“Come on, we can go see her.” he said more firmly. Though his face was still glazed as he eyed Henrik and offered his hand, Henrik could finally make out... something - emotion perhaps, flickering underneath his mask. Something in his voice betrayed it, something that drew him obediently off the pier and into the water beside him. Henrik shivered as he felt his flesh meet the water. The lake bed was covered in an spongy substance which yielded unpleasantly under his feet.

“We can't do this, John. We can't,” he whispered.

“We have no choice.” John replied, jaw setting.

“There's got to be something. We could... go. Somewhere. Anywhere!” begged Henrik.

“Why? There's _nothing_ left.”

“We can start again.”

“Impossible.”

“You and me. Remember?” Henrik reached to touch John's arm. John shook his head calmly and moved to touch Henrik's in return. The two of them stood thigh-deep in the water searching each other's gazes.

“It won't work, trust me. They don't understand,” He licked his lips, “Henrik: we tried. That's enough.”

John slid his hand down and over Henrik's, squeezing it gently before lowering their entwined hands to their sides. With a deep breath he started off, drawing Henrik along slowly while the man was blindsided by his own words being thrown back at him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, ostensibly to John; in truth he spoke to Roxanna. He was too weak to do anything but submit to John. _Broken, weak, cowardly Henrik_. _I can't show my face back at that hospital anyway, not after allowing all that evil to thrive there. People dead and crippled by my obliviousness, my weakness. They must all think me corrupt. Maybe they're right. This is probably for the best. There's no way I can atone for this on top of Fredrik's crimes. They've all suffered incredibly because of me. Jac, Essie, Adrian, Sacha... that poor Bloom boy who had been so looking forward to being able to -live- again. And his death would have killed his mother no doubt._

So it went, Henrik's thoughts reeling and lurching in circles, down further and further as he and John moved away from the bank and into the deeper water. The images plaguing him were horrifying. His mother's body drifting, blue and swollen, Roxanna staring silently at the ceiling, frozen in life and then in death. But as the cold, fetid water crept up his ribs, he thought he heard a noise approaching from afar. John came to a halt and glanced at Henrik who could only stare dumbly in return.

John swivelled hindwards and squinted into the trees.

“J-John?”

“A car.”

“It's a public park,” Henrik managed through chattering teeth.

“Mm. C'mon.”

Henrik watched as John turned back, though he looked troubled and his grip on Henrik's hand tightened.

“Maybe we should...”

“No Henrik,” snapped John, “We're going. It's over.”

If he wasn't mistaken, John's confidence was starting to wobble. A shard of hope splintered into his heart, which was currently going a thousand miles an hour.

 _What would Roxanna do? She'd opt for life, she would take it without a second thought. Even while she was locked-in she was doing everything in her power to make sure people were safe from harm!_ The voice he had previously bannished was back and thundering over his turbulent emotions. _She shone like a beacon, don't let him drag you down like this, not now. There's always a way. Always._

The thudding of car-doors being shut reached his ears next, so with a dry mouth he tried again.

“John. Look. Death isn't going anywhere. Let's just make sure that we can actually do the deed without interruption first. It's no good hitting the bottom of the lake if we're only going to be dragged back out by some would-be Samaritans. And god forbid they have children with them.”

John chewed on his lip looking annoyed. He knew Henrik had a point.

“What do you suggest we do then.”

“I don't know, wait and see if they see us. If they do we'll say... we dropped something in here. Something we need urgently, I don't know.” he hissed.

“Fine. Stay still, I can't hear over ya.”

Voices – booming voices – emerged from the shore, though it was a good while before any clarity could be gained. It was as he hoped and dreaded.

“... THAT WAY.” rang out clear as day.

“Wh...” started John in disbelief. Henrik was a baffled as he was – how did the police know where to find them and so quickly? His mouth cracked open and he shook his head.

“Bu— I didn't—”

“Are you sure?” John's voice rose in pitch, “You didn't? Henrik, tell me you didn't!”

Henrik went on shaking his head as he tried to calm John down. He squeezed his hand though John only pushed him away.

“I didn't, I swear on my life. It's impossible!”

John was twisting around frantically looking for some escape.

“They always know. How do they always know?” he was muttering deliriously, “They can't get us! I won't go, I won't. You don't know, Henrik, you don't understand what they'll do to us.”

“Relax John, I'm here, remember?” He waded over to his panicked friend. This did not bode well.

“I won't do it _ever_ again. You can't let them!!”

“John, please, take a deep breath. We haven't gone anywhere. Let me handle it. I won't let them—”

“STOP WHERE YOU ARE, PLEASE. You're surrounded. I am Officer Parsons of the Holby City Police Department and I am charged with taking you into custody. Surrender and we can all sort this out peaceful-like.”

The policeman's voice was unsettlingly friendly like he normally worked at a chippy and this was some kind of bizarre side-job. There was a smaller woman next to him, presumably his junior, whose voice could also be heard in the background. From the middle of the lake, the two men scanned the shore and confirmed what they were being told.

“Please don't make us come in there,” Parsons added.

John's face was the picture of terror. Henrik swallowed hard and moved closer to him.

“Henrik,” he plead weakly.

“I won't let them harm you, I promise. Can you trust me?”

“... did you ever love me?”

Henrik cleared his throat as pretext to choking back a sob, though his eyes were streaming with tears again. The vulnerability in John's voice was the same as that night, the only night he knew for sure that somebody cared for him. The only proof he had to hand that John Gaskell had once been human being.

“Of course I did,” he whispered back.

“DOCTOR HANSSEN AND PROFESSOR GASKELL!” shouted Parsons.

“But we have to make this right. We have to face this. We'll face it together, alright?” he continued with what he hoped was reassurance, “Whatever it is.”

John's head tilted just a fraction forward in a nod and Henrik nodded encouragingly along with him.

“Right. Now, I'll tell them we're coming out. Shall we go back to the pier?”

He wasn't expecting much response; his dialogue was meant more as rhetorical reassurance to keep John abreast of his methods. The glazed look was back on his face. Henrik gently herded John near as could be to him and as a pair, set off.

“JUST A MOMENT,” bellowed Henrik landwards, “Er, WE'RE UNARMED.”

The two lead policemen's postures slackened in relief. He observed one of them talking into a walkie-talkie as they neared land and a few others strolled over to join them. Once the surgeons' trajectory was observed, they all moved off to meet them.

Henrik emerged with a vacant John in tow.

“Easy now,” he murmured to him, helping him up onto the pier. To no surprise, John's movements stiffened as he began to resist, “Easy. I've got you.” The police looked rather bored as the two middle-aged men stood, sopping wet like rats before them. Henrik suspected they'd been warned that John was highly dangerous, probably by Sacha, and were disappointed with what they'd found.

“Now,” began Henrik, “Let's do this nice and calmly, please. Gentle if you can.”

“Right-o, thankyou gentlemen,” replied Parsons with an easy smile, “If you'll just come with us, the both of you are now under arrest.”

 

“... Sorry, what?"


	3. Apprehended

“You're both under arrest,” repeated Officer Parsons as his men went about placing handcuffs on the both of them. Henrik gaped downwards.

“ _I'm_ under arrest?”

“Yes.” … “Was that or was that not just you out there, up to your neck in it with the Professor?” He pointed out to the lake, giving Henrik a look.

“W— bu—” spluttered Henrik in horror. He had been. _You idiot, how else did you think that would look?!_

“We can sort this out later. For now I'm going to ask that you do as your told, alright, sir?”

“...yes, yes, alright. But look, I need a quick word first. John, you just sit in the car a moment, I'll join you shortly.”

At Henrik's command, the officer pulled a stoic face at his subordinates and nodded at the car in agreement. “G'won.”

“Careful, careful,” breathed Henrik, wincing as they ducked John's head down for him. Once the door was shut, he gestured the officers aside, out of eyeshot.

“Ok, listen to me carefully, please. John Gaskell is psychotic and has been for some time, he needs urgent care and special handling. You need to take him immediately to... I don't know, Saint James's psychiatric ward, that would probably be best for all of us—”

“Doctor Hanssen we're well aware of the Professor's problems. Our team have been at your hospital for some time now collecting information,” said the officer patiently, “But as far as we're concerned, this is what looks like is happening: you and the professor were in league from the beginning – ah, ah, let me finish – and you were just now trying to kill yourselves. I don't know or care right now what the truth is, but that the both of you are suspects, him especially, and the both of you are dangers to yourselves. We will not be taking you to Saint James's or any other hospital because as you said – this is urgent and frankly I don't care to waste time mucking about on the motorway. Holby City Hospital is closest. Are we understood?”

Henrik opened and shut his mouth disbelievingly. This wasn't going to be done on his terms.  
“St James would really be more appropri—”

“Are we _understood_?” he repeated firmly.

“One last question.”  
“Fine.”

“How on earth did you find us?”

“Ah. I'm told one of your young staff members saw you dashing to your car and alerted Doctor Griffith, is it? Told us you said that you were looking for Gaskell, gave us your plate and contact details and we just tracked your phone's GPS to be honest. Don't usually get to do that much around here so the lads were happy to fast-track it for us.” Parsons smiled cheerfully.

“I see.”

“Ready, sir?”

Henrik nodded.

“Put me in next to him, would you? So I can keep an eye on him.”

“If you like.”

 

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Three cars, three taps.

_How many men were there back there? An odd number. Definately odd. Odd cars with odd numbers in a meandering convoy wending lazily past the draff of post-peak-hour traffic. Impossible to find symmetry. Not much of a hurry either._

Henrik's eyes fixed on the road. Anything to distract him from the nauseating stench and the torrent of bile bouncing up and down his oesophagus. The smell had gotten so bad the police had wound the windows down, although the fresh air never did quite reach the back of the vehicle until they were on the approach to the hospital.

“Go in the back entrance. No—! The other— _djävla idiot_!”

“Sir, please calm down.”  
“I'd be a lot calmer if you'd only listen to me! Do they even train you these days? Or did they just send out the blasted highway traffic brigade?!”  
“Doctor Hanssen— ”

“ _Mister_ Hanssen!” he barks.

“Mister Hanssen—”

“Oh no... no, no, no...” Henrik's attention was pulled away to the crowd of media swarming at the entrance. Security and some police had formed a small cordon at the door but otherwise it was a free-for-all. His leg began to bounce uncontrollably in tandem with his tapping.

_Clogging up the ambulance bay, well done,_ he thought bitterly,  _it's not like there'll be any emergencies today, will there, you halfwitted imbeciles?_

 

The vehicle they were travelling in pulled up at the front door while the others cars drifted off to park elsewhere. Parsons' partner twisted around to face them.

“Sit back, Mr Hanssen please. We'll get you in there as quick as we can but you have to cooperate, understand?”

“Then hurry up, would you?” snapped Henrik. Some creative photographers were legging it to higher-ground to get a better vantage point in the car. He reached over to try and get John out of their range. Entirely futile with his shackled hands and the pathetic blankets they'd been covered with for warmth.

Henrik glared at his lifeless body. John might as well be dead; all his muscles were taut as if in rigor mortis and his eyes fixed on nothing whatsoever.

“John,” he murmured as the officers climbed out, “We're home. Once we're inside we can clean up and sort this out, alright? I'll get you clear of them as soon as I can. You need rest.”

He knew John was listening somewhere in there. _Mr Omniscient_.

Now he just had to reassemble himself for the last leg of their journey. A flock of people were shuffling towards them, familiar faces all of them, mostly juniors but security staff as well. Henrik felt a small pang of pity for what they were about to have to endure.

 

Exiting the vehicle wasn't much of a problem, but the moment they were inside, away from the glare of cameras flashing and the squall of reporters, Henrik's twitching and trembling only got worse as he and John neared some of their more closely acquainted peers. Essie specifically.

“NO. No, no, don't stop here, keep, yes... to the lift, immediately please,” bellowed Henrik hoarsely. He tried desperately to keep alongside John but there were members of the psych team trying to seperate them.

“Let go of me.” he grunted.  
“Henrik!” exclaimed Essie. She bustled over to them and set a prohibitive hand on one of the officer's arms the moment she saw handcuffs on him, “Wait, hold on a moment, this isn't right!”

“Excuse me, ma'am?” said the officer, confused.

“No, Henrik's not... why are you all wet?”  
“Essie leave. This isn't helping.” snapped Henrik. Essie jumped, her eyes wide. Her look hardened as her gaze swept towards Gaskell who was already in the lift. Henrik joined him moments later.

“A-Alright?” said Essie and started off as if a fire had been lit under her.

 

As the lift descended, Henrik closed his eyes and steadfastly ignored whatever instructions were being foisted on him. They would not wrest control from him that easily. He would cling to it, step by step, inch by inch. The adrenaline surging through his veins assured him everything would be fine as long as he just held his ground.

The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. John might be out of action but Henrik was not.

_I don't need him to finish the fights I start anymore,_ he thought serenely,  _I am in control. This is my hospital and this is my fault. I will fix this. I will make this right. They mightn't understand us, but I do. John will pay in due course for taking Roxanna's life, but not just yet._

 

As they were escorted to the ward and given the once over, Henrik found his psychiatrist had already been summoned. That was one less thing to worry about, he supposed, though he had no desire to speak to him. Henrik's immediate goal was making sure John was clean, comfortable and in possession of a modicum of dignity.

John's admission of his childhood days had struck a deep, painful chord in Henrik. It had prompted him to reevaluate their physical contact over the years and he had been discomforted and ashamed by his own conduct despite nothing objectionable, given the circumstances, came to mind. Immediately he had decided to take a step back, revert to impersonal touches only. He had been delighted that John had become taken by the handshaking, but now he found himself fraught about what to do with this bathing situation.

John had always been prudish, even when it was ridiculously hot or if he was swimming he had kept a shirt on. Knowing what he knew now about the brandmark, he ventured that it was really only himself that had even seen that much of his body willingly.

The idea of a bunch of nurses invading his privacy made his skin crawl and the idea of having to tell them why, having to tell them something so personal about John without being able to gain his informed consent made him even more reluctant.

_Why did it have to be a filthy lake?_ he lamented to himself and nodded at whatever the psychiatrist was telling him. Something about medication, his or John's, he wasn't sure. The psychiatrist went on to ask him various expected questions to which he was sparing with the details.

 

“Henrik?!” came a familiar voice from down the hallway. Sacha Levy strode with purpose towards them, clutching a folder at his side as he elbowed his way through the mess of staff. It was at this point, Henrik's psychiatrist peeled away, leaving them to talk.

“Henrik are you okay?”

Henrik gave him a stony look.

“Right. Yes. Okay before we talk there's some stuff that's happened that I need to update you with because I'm afraid I'm going to need your help– it's about Jac. She wasn't recovering from the surgery. We think the Professor adulterated her IV with something, probably the MPTP, before he took off. Did he say anything about—?”

“Oh, Sacha!” blurted Henrik, turning white, “Is she—”

“Yes. She's fine. She's stable anyway— ”  
“— her kidneys!”

“Yup, we took all of that into account, relax. Just relax, she's going to be _fine_ as long as we can find a way to get that thing out of her.”

Sacha lifts his eyebrows pleadingly at Henrik.

“Look, we have time. It's not super-duper urgent. Time for you to get him to tell us how to do it. How to fix this.”

“Sacha,” came Essie's voice as she rounded the corner into sight, “This isn't appropriate right now.”  
“I know, but he needs to know so that he—”

Beside Essie strode the locum consultant psychiatrist. She had taken care to call one in who didn't know Hanssen very well so as to get an objective pair of eyes.

“I'm afraid she's right Mr Levy. I'm keeping abreast of Ms Naylor's condition, please don't worry about that,” said the locum, straightening her glasses, “I will handle things from here.”

“Ms Eldridge. Right. Yes, I'm sorry,” muttered Sacha, running a hand through his snowy mane, “There was one more thing, though, which isn't urgent in fact, but I thought you should know: Lana the Nameless is dead. We did our best, but as you saw, she was in a pretty rough state when we found her.”

“Mm,” Henrik nodded sadly, “I know.” Sacha couldn't know how grateful Henrik was for his fellow surgeon's kindness and sensitivity in caring for her. Her survival was never expected.

“Leave you guys to it then, sorry.”

Sacha smiled crookedly before gazing at Essie who was giving him a meaningful look, one he'd seen often before when having put his foot in it. He nodded and shuffled back a few steps before turning back to return to Jac's side.

 

Essie sighed and glanced between Henrik and the psychiatrist, heartfelt sympathy plastered all over her face. She gestured to the woman next to her and then pointed at Sacha, mouthing, “I'll be back later,” before starting off after him.

The locum introduced herself as Riley Eldridge as she lead Henrik along to where they would be held. She was an older woman dressed rather plainly and bookishly and to Henrik's relief wasted no time in laying out what the score was for both he and John. The police were asking for a 72 hour section on them to be properly assessed, though acknowledged at Henrik's slightly incoherent questioning that John was almost certainly staring down a full section two.

“Look, where is John anyway, I need to make sure he's alright, I promised,” asked Henrik, starting to become agitated again.

“Promised what, Mr Hanssen?”

“To keep an eye on him. Make sure he's okay.”  
“Are you expecting something bad to happen?”  
“Well, no, but... it's sensitive, you see.”

“Can I help?”

Henrik clears his throat and shifts about uncomfortably.  
“Whatever cleaning up is necessary, I want to do it. I know there's got to be a thousand rules you must have to follow, but this has to happen. He can't deal with this right now and you won't get him to talk, so I know him best, I'm his friend, I'll do it and get it out of the way, alright?”

Ms Eldridge studied him, noting that he had begun to tap.

“I'm not going to lie, that's not ideal. But I suppose it can't hurt. You'll have to be supervised, though, I'm afraid. No way around that. And before you go, I'll ask you pop in and get your medications sorted first.”

Henrik growled miserably. Antidepressants were fine, but he'd had sedatives foisted on him after Roxanna died and found them trecherous and ultimately unhelpful.

“I know, I'm sorry. Your psych's sorting it now.” She clasped her hands in front of her, “Just focus on your breathing for now.”

“Yes. Thankyou.” snapped Henrik, tugging at the warmth-blanket. He continued to mumble prickly words to himself as he moved into his 'room'.

“Tell me when he's ready. And make sure your staff keep their hands off John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Henrik only told Sacha the bare minimum about the trafficking stuff – that John had grown up with her mother, considered her family, and that her mother and Lana were both trafficked and branded. Not that John was involved too.


	4. Consultant Conflab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude of aftershocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up some stuff for later. Gaskell surviving is not going to be the only plot alteration.

“Sacha, I told you, this is much more serious than it look.” said Essie, trotting to catch up to the taller man's strides.

“When did I say it didn't look serious? They got Gaskell, Henrik's safe.” replied Sacha. His attention was laser-focused elsewhere. Essie knew that Sacha was protective of Jac, so she trod carefully.  
“But he's not well! Did you not see what I saw?”  
Sacha sighed as he hit the up button on the lift. “Yes. He's wet. It's a misunderstanding with the police, I'm sure. They said he was trying to help him: we both know that's not true!”

“Yes, I know, but he— ”

“He'll sort this out. Look, the others are wanting a report, they'll be relieved to know bloody teflon Gaskell didn't get to ooze away to Portugal or Morocco or – whatever. Guh.”

“Fine, I know. I'm just worried.”

“I know,” he said, pausing before adding, “Actually, could you do something for me? Now that I think of it. Give Chrissie a ring back at some point? She's been on me about Daniel, he's caught some news or something on telly. She keeps texting me about it, I'm about to toss this thing in the bin.” Sacha pulled his phone out of his pocket and examined it. No new messages. For now.

Essie blew out a held breath.

“I'll do it for Daniel.”

“Thanks.”

Sacha patted Essie on the back as the lift dinged and they walked through the ward to the Darwin staff-room where the other consultants were gathered now that Jac had been taken out of ITU. Adrian Fletcher saw them rounding the corner and emerged from her bay.

-

“They get him?! I heard they got him?” he blurted and folded his arms. Sacha wasn't surprised by Fletch's intensity though he wished he wasn't on the end of it. He nodded and ushered the man along with them into the staff-room.

“Oh yes. Brilliant. That's great. Yeah. Got him!” added Fletch as the others turned inquiringly to face them. Ric and Serena sat at the table, huddled by their coffees while Connie Beauchamp hovered on the arm of the couch.

“Ah. Well. That's that then,” said Connie. Her folded arms slackened a little while she continued to drum her spindly fingers against herself.

“Er, not quite. He's downstairs,” said Sacha slowly, eyes flicking back to Fletch, “in the psych unit. Under guard.”

“And where is Henrik?” asked Serena, lifting her head from her phone.

“Henrik's downstairs too, there's been a mixup with the police. It's nothing, he'll be up in a while probably.”

“But, the police have him too,” said Essie, giving Sacha another pointed look, “They seem to think he was helping Gaskell.”

“What??” exclaimed Serena, scoffing.

Connie glanced around the room. She snorted a little bit. Her relationship with Hanssen was noticibly cooler than the others, but while Hanssen was a bastard and always would be to her, she couldn't put his politicking, snobbery and managerial high-handedness anywhere near Gaskell's flagrant god-complex.

“Wait, start from the start, Sacha,” said Ric and lifted his arms, “You're confusing everybody!”

“How am I— ugh!”

“Gaskell was at a lake,” explained Essie, barreling over the top of him, “Henrik found him there trying to kill himself. The police showed up and thought they were both trying to kill themselves. Both of them are in custody downstairs in the psych unit being assessed.”

Serena frowned thoughtfully but said nothing, shuffling the mug of coffee around in her hands. Connie glanced over at her and muttered, “Typical,” under her breath, “Can't just've caught the prick.” To the others she continued, “And so now we are again without a CEO and he _and_ Holby City's Director of Medicine are under arrest for what is essentially the worst possible set of crimes a hospital can be accused of!”

Ric looked annoyed and shook his head, “That's not important right now!”

“Yes, I think you'll find it is, Ric, because someone has to go out there to the unwashed, frothing masses and make a statement,” retorted Connie, placing her hands on her hips, “and _you_ are hardly up to the task.”

“Hey, hey,” started Serena. An expression of distaste flit over her wearied features. Essie winced at the oncoming spat and rubbed at her temples.

Fletch moved to the wall and leant heavily against it. The others began to raise their voices, sniping at each other about who was responsible for what, who would throw themselves under the bus to take one for the team, who would wrestle with the Board and Lord Rasheed. It was all just noise to him. Jac's daughter was his number one priority. He'd asked his father earlier to go with Evie to collect her when it was time. That was as far as he'd gotten. He pawed at his hairline miserably as he reached for his phone to check for updates.

Connie lifted herself off the arm of the couch and gave Serena, Sacha and Ric a look. “So then which of you have been ringing around for locums? I can't be running all the way up to Darwin from ED – and no, Keogh's not up to filling in for me down there, I'm sorry, just how it is.”

Sacha butt in: “Um, I have some leads. We have a few options, it's just availability that's the problem. I'll sort it, don't worry. Oh, and Dom's coming in. Keller should be okay.”

“I'll help too,” said Ric, leaning back in his chair, “It's Neuro that's going to be the tricky one...”

“Mmm. Good luck with that,” said Serena. She rose to her feet and shoved her phone in her pocket, “Off I go then to face the music. Unless Connie has graciously changed her mind..?”

“No, be my guest,” said Connie sweetly. Their argument had resulted in her drawing the straw that put her to coordinating with the Board, specifically Rasheed. Serena had long had enough of his fickle panicky management. She knew exactly how many alarms would be going off right now and decided to choose facing the media instead: good luck to the Ice Queen. Unbeknownst to her, it suited the Ice Queen just fine. “Right. I'm off too. Call me if you need me.”

Essie nodded and followed her out, fiddling with her phone. Now would be as good a time as any to get Chrissie off her back and she'd quietly had an idea that she hoped would make the earache worth it.

“Neuro.”  
Fletch watched dimly as the group dispersed, leaving Sacha alone with him. His friend regarded him concernedly and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We'll get it out of her, I promise. We just need someone who can decipher Gaskell's rubbish, that's all.”

“But who? Noone's gunna touch this with a ten-foot pole. I've already put feelers out. It's bad enough with the shootin' and all that, this is gunna absolutely destroy us.”

“Don't— don't worry about that for now. We're in this together, remember?”

Fletch glanced up at Sacha's sympathetic smile and sighed. “Mate...”

“For Jac.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “For Jac.”

Both men started off back to Jac's bedside. There was paperwork to be done.


	5. Stripped Back to Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A last grasp for connection.

The hospital had never struck Henrik before as a place of weakness. It was always a symbol of improvement, of wellness and hope. His own physical health was immaculate. He'd had a few nasty colds over the years – pneumonia once. Some cuts. He had never wound up in hospital at any rate. Never had to feel weak or impotent beyond what the voice in the back of his head told him he was. That was another beast entirely.

And so it had not yet sunk in that he was not in here as staff, but as a patient. The psychiatrist, he supposed, had yielded so easily to his requests out of deference. As an unknown quantity, his colleagues would have filled her in on his former CEO-ship and she therefore, newly illuminated, she must simply be doing as told. Ms Eldridge knew this was all a mistake: she'd admitted that he was not, on revision, to be put on suicide watch, not a danger to himself. After she'd acquiesced to his proposal re: John, she'd disappeared leaving Henrik certain he was off the hook.

As John sat obediently to one side, Henrik took it upon himself to inspect the facilities. The place was so bare; there were cracks in the off-white tiles and the haphazard grouting left something to be desired in it's presentation. While the hospital's structure was quite old, Henrik as CEO had always made sure to keep it's appearance mostly up to date. They fared much better than St James in that regard, thought Henrik, with a spot of pride. A few cracks was nothing to be ashamed of. That was simply what government contractors provided. _Nature of the beast and all that,_ he assured himself as a finger traced the most egregious faultline.

He glanced uneasily back to their watchmen, frowning and lowering his hand. Then, taking a deep breath, he shuffled back over to John.

“No way around it, old friend,” murmured Henrik as he began to peel the sodden suit off him. He nudged him to move his limbs and he did so obediently.

“Let's be quick.”

Henrik had already sloughed off his own nasty jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves.

“I don't know if the police will want these,” he said, “but as far as I'm concerned they're beyond salvage. If you've no argument, I'll get them sent down to the incinerator.”

No response, though John's beady, reddened eyes shifted towards Henrik's hands as they worked their way down his shirt buttons.

“Right.”

_Not like he'll be needing them for the forseeable future anyhow._

John's fingers twitched in anticipation as Henrik opened his shirt revealing the brandmark and darted to cover it immediately. Henrik was very careful to avert his gaze and let his eyes instead rove over the rest of his his pale, nearly translucent skin.

Beforehand, John's intractable silence had necessitated a blood-test to avoid contraindication should he already be taking medication. Henrik wasn't surprised that they'd merely found traces of sleeping pills; the man had always suffered insomnia. His lack of vitamin D was no surprise either. _Neither's this,_ he thought idly as his hand swept past a discoloured patchy scar by his shoulderblade, _Football. Thanksgiving-time. A 'friendly' match. David dragging him off the pitch, nursing injuries of his own while Roxanna wailed threats at both of them for their carelessness from the sidelines._

As he worked lower, he found other more worrying marks atop his thighs. Without his glasses it was difficult to see, but to touch he knew immediately what the line of neat, thin little ridges of scar-tissue were. He'd never noticed them before. If anything, in times past he would have assumed them to be merely tiny folds of skin; his attention, of course, had always been held elsewhere nearby. The revelation was unwelcome. Henrik cleared his throat and pushed his thoughts aside. He could feel John's eyes boring through the top of his head and so turned his mind to the deed at hand.

His psychiatrist had called it 'mindfulness'. Letting thoughts drift about like white-noise while focusing on actions alone. He'd recalled Roxanna talking about something similar once, years ago during her Buddhist phase. Naturally she was right in all things. Henrik soberly went about scrubbing while she prattled casually on philosophy from the farther reaches of his mind.

As he worked he felt the medication he'd been given starting to kick in and numb his mind, creating a sort of tunnel-vision that enhanced his focus on his movements. Away from Roxanna, away from John under hand. It was disconcerting but welcome. For now. _Nothing but the work_.

-

Time passed slowly, or at least it seemed to:

“Ok, hurry up guys, others need to be clean too,” came a young man's voice as he walked past the door. One of the juniors that had been swarming Eldridge earlier, presumed Henrik.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, eyeing John. John was looking a little more aware now, though he knew it was a deliberate choice of his to keep stum. Hopefully he felt a little more human. His damp skin glistened like rainwater on an old marble statue, noted Henrik awkwardly as the scent of citrus attacked his senses. It'd been years since they'd been so near to one another like this. He wondered if John felt the tension too, the old bond making itself known under the medicated haze, fear and inscrutable depths.

Just as he'd seen vulnerability in John earlier at the lake, he decided to seize the moment.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked cautiously, “You can take care of yourself. I might've provoked half the skirmishes we found ourselves in when we were younger, but you certainly finished them. All of them.”

To his surprise, John's eyes met his. He licked slowly at his lips, looking pensive, though he did not speak. Henrik lifted the towel and started to dry him off. Their overseers, particularly the policeman, appeared to perk up at this shift in activity. Henrik frowned.

“Say something. Please?”

“Wh... hm.” Is all John offered. Henrik knew that manoeuvre. John had thought better of it the second his mouth opened.

“It's ok.”

John breathed deeply and Henrik knew at once his window of opportunity was closed. John had disconnected. He shot a dark look to the policeman who only shrugged.

“I'll do my best,” he began and straightened, leaving John to clutch the towel resting in his lap. He then passed him the set of in-patient clothing provided, “But I can't stop this. More importantly I won't stop this. You know what you have to do, John. If you're straightforward and honest, I can guarantee this will go a lot easier, but there will be consequences. Unavoidable ones.”

He ran a hand through his own disgusting hair, inspecting the resulting matter with a curled lip.

“Now -please- dress so that they can take you back to your quarters. I'll check in on you once I'm done.”

John swallowed and clumsily did as he was told. His eyes hovered around Henrik's kneecaps while he did so and Henrik once again wondered what on earth might be going on in there behind them. Perhaps he'd never know. Despair brushed his mind, tickling what sensation he retained behind the fog of sedatives and he turned around to the shower. He'd turn it on himself once they'd left. Then he could settle back clean and renewed and once again in charge.

Ms Eldridge would be happy to hear an update on their captive. No doubt she'd have a better idea of how to approach this than he. Henrik rushed through his shower, content that the water was mostly cold. The sharpness was refreshing. As was the feeling of a comb through his hair and clean, dry cotton on his skin.

He emerged and spotted Ms Eldridge's junior doctor talking to a patient. He walked over, waited his turn and raised an eyebrow as the young man smiled to see him.  
“Mr Hanssen. Ms Eldridge is just around the corner there. She asked me to fetch you when you were done. There's a lot to talk about, apparently.” he said quickly, before Henrik could speak.

“I see. Very well.” He gave him a short nod of acknowledgement and continued onward towards John's room.


	6. Setting Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henrik accepts his burden.

Henrik stood at the doorway to John's new lodgings and let his eyes wander. The late afternoon sun was casting warm light over the bare walls, which he was glad of – sunshine would do John good – though his mind nagged him, reminding him of that morning's similarly eerie atmosphere. He wondered if, years from now, his memory of this nightmare would be cast in the same golden glow.

John was snoring audibly so at least he could be sure he was asleep. He couldn't imagine the drugs he'd been dosed with. He stepped back into the hallway, satisfied for now and leaving John to his much-needed slumber.

It didn't take long for him to find his way to the small office Ms Eldridge had holed herself up in. It was cozy in it's own clinical way – the plush-looking couch felt inviting at any rate. He hesitated once again at the threshold.

“Ah, Mr Hanssen, might I have a word?” She smiled hopefully at him.

“Yes, I believe that was why I was summoned.”

“Yes, so you met Dr Zhu then? Lovely young man.”

Henrik nodded numbly and shuffled to the couch. Even in his haze he was impatient. “How can I help you?”

The older woman smiled. An arm was slung across the back of her chair as she swivelled to face him. Not altogether professional, but she had an air of bohemia about her. “Well, I just wanted to see how you were. You were quite on edge earlier. Did the medication help?”

“Yes, thankyou.” he said shortly. It was now visibly noticible as fatigue crept through him and the adrenaline started to ebb, though his leg once again was bouncing on the spot. Not anxiously but rhythmically, as if he were soothed by the motion.

“Good. Now - I know earlier when we talked I told you that I was satisfied you weren't an immediate risk to yourself,” she started slowly. Up until now she'd come across as positively zen-like, so this hesitation stood out to Henrik as a red flag.

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed.

“It's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid. Your psychiatrist and I are in agreement that these events have pushed your mental state rather to a point where not only is your medication inadequate to your needs, we believe you may be also be struggling without the same external support to manage your symptoms as you had been previously.”

Henrik had to admit, she was doing a good job at keeping a straight face.

“Becaue they've passed away or are currently indisposed themselves?” he deadpanned.

Acknowledgement crinkled the corner of her eyes as she continued to smile.

“Correct.”

“Mm.”

“There is also the matter of the media storm, which you are no doubt keenly aware of, and the stress of the unavoidable criminal inquiry that is unfolding as we speak. So my proposal to you is thus: you remain here with us for the suggested 36 hours – yes, under the sectioning. It would give you breathing space and a much better chance of being able to properly process what's going on.”

She entwined her fingers, rested her chin on her hands and searched his face for his response.

Henrik fixed his eyes on a painting across from him. He wanted so badly to react but couldn't make the effort.

“'Sectioning',” he said at last with a snort, “So the day's finally arrived.”

“A joke?”

“No. After the year I've had, it was only a matter of time.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. You're ill, that's all,” she offered simply.

“I know.”

How many times had he had this discussion with his own staff?

 _Fair's fair. I'm a cog in the machine now, after all,_ he reminded himself as he felt his pride bristling at being on the receiving end.

“Will I still have access to John?” he deflected.

She nodded as though she'd anticipated his question, only irking him further. He did not enjoy feeling like his actions were transparent or predictable. He figeted.

“If I can clear it with the police. And his consultant.”

“Good... good.”

“You sound relieved.”

Henrik did not respond. He turned his attention instead to his hands, rubbing at one of his fingers.

“Truthfully, Mr Hanssen, I had intended on pursuing that regardless. It's obvious even to me that the pair of you are close. And this is a very distressing situation to be in, for both of you.” she remarks idly.

Another attempt at prompting a discussion Henrik was not interested in having right at the present.

“'Breathing space', you say,” he murmured, “If it's all the same to you, I'd like to claim some. Now. The medication....” he finished lamely.

“Yes, of course. There should be a trolley coming around soon if you find yourself hungry – otherwise I will talk to you later. Briefly, after dinner perhaps.”

Nod.

Henrik rose from his seat and trudged back out.

_Well it's not as though you're going to come back from this anyway,_ he thought to himself,  _might as well accept your hellish fate as it comes to pass. You chose risk over caution, handed yourself to him: here's your reward. And what a reward it is, John, old friend._

The young Dr Zhu spotted him in the hall again as he emerged and scurried to his side, matching his pace despite being a good half-foot shorter than him.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

Henrik was impressed with his directness. And industriousness as well – he noted the great stack of files weighing down the man's arms. He had to admit, he'd not spent as much time on this department when he was CEO as he did the surgical ones. Bias was natural. He wondered idly how many promising young professionals like this one he'd let slip by.

“Yes.”

“Ok, so follow me. It should be ready. The room, I mean.”

“I mean to rest,” announced Henrik as they rounded a corner. The room in question was not too far away from John's quarters, to his relief. His eyes drifted to the surly looking guards.

“Yep, of course. I'll tell the others. No trouble,” replied Zhu. He waved a hand at the door, “Anything else Mr Hanssen?”

Hesitating at the door, he shook his head. The movement felt wrong. Like his head wanted to drop off it's perch. He blinked it away and focused on Zhu.

“No, thank you. I'm very grateful,” he added in a soft voice.

Zhu smiled crookedly.

“Sleep well, sir.”

Deferrent to boot. If he ever got out of here, he'd make sure the youth's future was secured. Henrik gave a small nod and started to close the door behind him. The only challenge left for now would be to find a way fit on the bed.


	7. My Old Friend John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henrik takes the first step to facing himself. To facing John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one folks. The mention of Santorini is taken from a conversation Henrik has with Joseph Byrne early season 13.

It was as though he'd been asleep only a moment before he was woken by the trundling and clinking of the food service. Henrik stared at the ceiling. He could hear gruff voices speaking. One of them sounded plausibly guard-like, he supposed; they had both resembled a species of hirsute gorilla common to that profession.

And now that his mind was switched back on, it began to drift to thoughts of the law, specifically Ric's difficulties with the law earlier in the year. Upon returning from his compassionate leave, Serena had updated him with the full details of what had happened while Ric was inside: his harrassment and assaults and the utterly blasé attitude the guards had taken. Sasha's two cents had been that the abuse was institutional and that Ric was unfortunately just another easy target, another black man 'earning' what he deserved. While a stubborn, nigh belligerent old goat at work, Henrik knew did not make a habit of looking for trouble.

Though he did continue to wonder what John would be subjected to. Granted, he didn't have the racial baggage to have to deal with, John's entire life was one long string of provocation after needless provocation. Was that respected 'inside', even from the mouth of one as small and soft-looking as John?

_Would it be better he stayed somewhere like here?_ he thought, trying to picture Roxanna beside him, listening sympathetically,  _Or perhaps I'm not giving him enough credit. No, I know I'm not,_ he amended, tilting his head towards her as if she were really there. If he closed his eyes he could see her chewing her lip, exasperation written all over her face.

_I was always too soft on him._

“ _Yes, you were.”_ he had her reply. Her voice was low and disapproving, as when he'd forgotten to pass along some grievance or other of hers to John, long, long ago. It never felt like it was worth the drama with him, but she'd been furious when she'd found out. Just like when he'd trusted John with the Bloom boy.

_You don't understand._

She twisted her mouth into a grimace.

“ _Henrik, that's your response to everything. 'It's too complicated.', 'We'd be here forever...', 'I've got a meeting.' You have never once tried to make me understand.”_

_I couldn't._

“ _Couldn't what?”_ she exclaimed.

_I couldn't bear to upset you. Or risk..._

“ _Losing me?”_

_Please, Roxanna..._

“ _It's not that complicated and you know it. You left everything to fester because you were afraid of the same thing that caused you ran away from your son. The same thing that made you sabotage us. You and me.”_

Henrik groaned and tried to shut his brain off, dragging a hand over his stricken face. No, no, so much for sympathy.

“ _...and off you go again, to hide.”_

“Shut up,” he whispered to himself aloud.

He forced the thoughts away, trying to focus instead on something else. Dinner trolley. Right. He supposed he could choke down some food – when was the last time he ate? More than a day, easy, he realised, pulling himself to his feet.

He yawned a bit and poked his head out the door, squinting into the stark fluorescent lights. Moments later he returned with a sad little tuna sandwich. The alternative had been tomato. His mind flickered to the night he'd broken down on Darwin. There had been a tuna sandwich floating around then too. Hm. An odd omen.

He craned his head back towards the door as he noticed a shadow behind him.

“May I come in?” asked Ms Eldridge. Her notepad was wedged dutifully under her arm, her pose businesslike.

Henrik nodded.  
“As long as you don't mind listening to me eat.”

She hesitated.  
“Oh, you're not done yet. Shall I come back?”

“No, no. I'd be glad of some company,” he admitted.

She shuffled past to sit down on the only chair in the room. Henrik opted to take the bed regardless, so he might stretch his legs. He started to fuss with napkins, making sure he couldn't possibly spill anything.

“I've thought things over, and I'd like to see if you agree with me,” started Eldridge, lifting a finger as she spoke, “We, you and I, have two main goals to work on over the next day and a half. Longer if it's agreeable to you, but to start with, our main aim will be to understand your emotional link to the Professor. I believe addressing this will lead us to the other goal, which I understand you are rather more interested in, which is to help the Professor in his own crisis, _which_ , as we know, will let us address the underlying cause of why we're all here to begin with! Does that sound correct?”

Henrik picked at his food, popping small scraps of it in his mouth like a bird.  
“Possibly. It sounds rather like we'll be taking the scenic route, I fear.”  
  
She smiled, “Well, I am _your_ consultant. My goal is to address _you_ in your crisis.”

“Obviously.”  
  
“I have to say, you sound reluctant.”

“I suppose I am. You're asking a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“And honestly, I've... not really ever thought about it.” he admitted ruthfully, “I'm not really the introspective type, unless you count relentless self-critique. And my recent little experience with therapy seemed to be wholly focused on looking forwards rather than retrograde navel-gazing or self-pity, though he did have a few things to say about my 'arrested emotional development' as he put it.”

“Yes, he gave me a good outline of the issues you dealt with in your sessions.”

“Mm. So if you're looking for an eloquent or even a coherent response, I'm afraid you're going have your work cut out for you.” he warned.

“Oh, I am, I know. But that's for me to worry about. In any case, tonight I thought we'd keep things brief. Big picture. A timeline perhaps of your knowing him, any major events, anything you specifically think might be useful...? This will give us something to start with.”

“Alright.” Henrik tried not to flinch at the words 'big picture'. He'd give anything to never hear those words again.  
“Well, we met at college, in Boston, as you know. I had transferred from Stockholm at the start of '87. I encountered him at some orientation event. We were in the same year and I didn't exactly fit in with the other students, especially not the Americans. He mentioned later he'd noticed my awkwardness and, feeling equally ill-suited to the crowd, decided to befriend me.”

He watched as she began to scribble things down on her notepad.

“He was odd, I admit. He professed to feeling isolated but there was nothing off about him, no easily identifiable sign of social maladroitness. On the contrary: he was quite charismatic, good looking and had no difficulty communicating ideas. Not half as hopeless as I was back then. No, to me it seemed like he deliberately didn't want to fit in. Any chance he got, he'd loudly declare his position on any topic and he'd _always_ pick the least popular one. I found it amusing, in any case. He was always looking to stir people up, make them uncomfortable. Fight, even.”

Henrik's mouth twitched into a faint smile as he reminisced. Eldridge raised her eyebrows. “Even you?”

“Ah. Not so much. He did try for a while, but I quickly learnt the easiest way to get him to stop was to ignore him, or better yet, agree with him. Fairly typical attention-seeking behaviour.”

“You didn't mind it?”  
  
“No. I was intrigued, actually. He wasn't the type of person I usually socialised with. I could never quite understand what it was in me he sought. There was a time when I couldn't go anywhere without bumping into him. And honestly, it was exciting too. His energy, however scattershot, was infectious. It was all endearing in a ridiculous way.”

“You saw it was a pose,” said Eldridge knowingly.

“Oh yes, definitely. Just bluster. Fun, though. He could say some horribly outrageous nonsense with a straight face. He's toned it down over the years, though – to wit, anyway.”

He faltered. Eldridge said nothing.

“Um. Later Roxanna Macmillan showed up, after mid-semester break. She was only a first year. Then later still came David Hopkins,” reeled off Henrik, “Next was... after we all graduated. We did our foundation training together in Trinidad. First year, at any rate. We moved back to Britain together after that.”

“That must've been exciting. And all as a group.”

“Yes. It was David's idea, but it was triggered by John's restlessness. Wanderlust. Eventually it was what wore our little group away. John took a job somewhere in Europe – I don't recall the specifics. And left behind with Roxanna and David, I, well, started to feel... awkward. So I took a job at a hospital in Lancaster.”

“And after that?” she prompted.

Henrik shrugged, “Conventions. A year here and there in residence. Uh. Holidays...”

“Where did you holiday?” she asked, noting an awkwardness in his tone.

“Just places. Nowhere deliberately, though I suppose the Mediterranean more than once. Florence, Milan. Santorini.”

“Oh yes, in Greece. Lovely there.”  
“Mm.” he grunted.  
  
“Built on the remains of a volcano if I remember correctly.”

“Something like that.”

She set down her pen and inspected him.

“When was the last time you ran into him, before you employed him here.”

Henrik chewed at his lip.

“Er... maybe five years ago? I resigned from Holby a few years back and moved back to Sweden to be with my... family. He visited me briefly while I was there.”

“Your family?”  
  
He frowned, becoming agitated.  
“Fredrik. His child, Oskar, was newborn. He wished for me to meet him. And that's the last time I saw John. Didn't hear from him, didn't see him. It was only second hand - from David – that I had heard about his success with Lazlo. I reached out to him at the details David provided me with and he responded.”

Eldridge nodded. Henrik was folding napkins into neat little squares and desperately avoiding her gaze.

“Alright. Well. I think that's given me a very good place to start. I'll leave you to your dinner, Mr Hanssen. Dr Zhu might pop around later, but it's good night from me.” she announced in a soft voice to Henrik's eternal gratitude.

“As you wish,” said Henrik, still averting his eyes. She nodded in acknowledgement. He was shutting down and he fervantly hoped she hadn't picked out why.

He hadn't even mentioned the holidays to Roxanna or David. The vulnerability felt overwhelming. For years they had laid buried in his memory as short, sharp bursts of emotion – passion even – that he had no idea what to do with. That he wasn't even sure were real sometimes.

As Eldridge departed, he stared at the ground clutching at his dinner's packaging tightly. It felt like an eternity before he was able to pull himself free of the raw emotions. He bundled the rubbish up and disposed of it and, with purpose in his step, marched out of his room and over to John's.

The guards studied him, surprised.

“I want to see him,” he murmured, “let me in.”

“Um... you're Hanssen, right?” the younger of the two asked.

“Yes. I'm allowed in, so just move would you?”

The other shrugged and stepped aside to let him pass.

Henrik shuffled into the darkness and paused to listen for John's snoring. It had settled into a long, deep and familiar rhythm. Comforting and chilling at the same time. He swallowed and moved to sit on the floor across from him. He was far too old for this, but the need to wrap himself in the comfort of the past was strangling him. If he tried, he could pretend they were back in college, back when things were normal.

Sitting quietly to comfort him in his dark place.


	8. Jac Needs Help Now, Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jac's condition teeters on the brink. Guy Self is brought in to give his opinion.

“Look, we've tried everyone. Everyone and anyone with an MD in the country, no-one wants to touch this! It's not like we have much choice.” plead Sacha as he strode down the halls of Darwin, Fletch in tow. “Jac needs a cure and Guy Self is the only one game for it!”

The two men came to a stop at the nurses' station, Sacha watching despairingly as Fletch sat down and preoccupied himself with paperwork. The ward was quiet and still even for the morning. A few nurses pottered around, making themselves scarce as the topic of what to do about Ms Naylor flared up again.

“We are _not_ swapping one narcisistic madman for another,” spat Fletch defiantly, “It's only been a day and she's stable. She even opened her eyes!"

“Well maybe he can get something out of Gaskell; he mentioned having met him before!”

“And what if he can't? What then?” countered Fletch, slamming a stack of files down.

Sacha held his ground.  
“He said, either way he thinks he can come up with a solution to remove it. We have to have faith.”

“No we don't.”

“Jac would be up for it,” prompted Sacha, clapping his hands together, “In a heartbeat. Even Frieda thinks so.”

“Jac thought Gaskell was a good idea.” shot back Fletch, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Well she wasn't the only one!”

“Let's not start that again!”

Exasperated, Sacha leant against the counter heavily. He scratched at his arm, “Look: how've you gotten on with getting a locum? Did you follow up on the list I gave you?”

Fletch lowered his voice a decibel, “Uh, yeah, I rang around all last night. Everyone's busy. Mo was up for it, but her kid's sick. I'm dreading having to tell Frieda. She's gunna kill me.”

An empathetic grimace formed on Sacha's face. Frieda on the warpath was more or less the same level of danger as Jac. Lucky for Fletch it wouldn't be for long.  
“Right. Well I called a few people too. An idea struck me at two this morning and lo and behold, she was available. Didn't think of her before because it's been ages. Glad I did, though. She said she'd be here before I could blink, so.”

Fletch stared at him in disbelief. Sacha knew that look — he'd been underestimated by his dear friend, as people were wont to do to him. His affability was a blessing and a curse; people never expected all that much of him. It stung a little, but he couldn't be sore with Fletch. Instead, he decided to prove him all the more wrong.  
“Some more good news I thought you might like to hear is that Chrissie has talked to her father, Mark Williams. He was the CEO before Hanssen and given the circumstances, he's said that he's able to come in and act as CEO for as long as we need. He's semi-retired these days so he's available and noone else wants to step up, so...”

Fletch was visibly relieved and rubbed his face vigorously.  
“Oh that's brilliant. Bloody brilliant!”  
  
“I know, right? Essie's idea,” he said, turning to peer down the hallway. Footsteps were approaching them at a clip and Sacha knew just who it had to be. Guy Self, clad in a dark suit and looking rather tired strode up to the two men and smiled crookedly.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” said Fletch guardedly, “You're looking... alive.”

“Good of you to notice,” was Guy's dry response, “I even have a pulse.”

Sacha beamed.  
“We're so grateful, you can't imagine...”

“Yes, well.”  
Guy glanced around the ward. The difference between their last encounter with this man and now was night and day, thought Sacha as he eyed him over. He was a bit haggard but then who wouldn't be?  
“So where's... oh, there she is. Shall we? It's too early for small talk.”

Fletch rose from his seat as Guy gestured to Jac's observation bay.  
“Yeah. Right.”

They wandered over, Fletch with Jac's notes in one hand, and gathered by her bedside. Sacha's eyes immediately went to her chest. Logically the alarm would go off if she stopped breathing, he knew, but she looked so near to death it was impossible to stop fretting about. Fletch passed the notes over to Guy so he could look at them.

“So,” he began, glancing between them all, “Quick run-down: she was shot earlier in the year with spinal damage. It didn't heal right and she was in a lot of pain. Scans showed her injury had become degenerative.”

“She got it into her head that the Professor's nerve implant trial was her only option,” added Fletch.

“Mm, yes. Gaskell. You said they caught him?”

Sacha nodded, “He's down in Psych being assessed. I don't know what state he's in, they shooed me. But I mean, that's only if you need him: you said something about having an idea of how to fix it?”

“Well,” started Self, moving closer to the monitors so he might inspect them, “I need way more information. I'll have to talk to him, but... you know, looking at this, I'd say her biggest danger currently isn't the implant but the neurotoxin you mentioned on the phone. We have a few options, but—”

As he spoke the klaxon started and Sacha felt his heart nearly burst out of his chest. He called frantically for the crash team and set about preparing Jac for them.

“It's hydroencephaly,” murmured Guy with a frown. He stepped back out of the way, “I need to operate, immediately.”

This was not welcome news.  
“Operate? Are you even allowed to operate??” yelped Fletch.

“Yes, I've done my time, Fletch—“

“—I wouldn't have called him if he couldn't—”

“—just get her stabilised and prepped for theatre. There's no time to call for another surgeon, we'll lose her if we don't act now. Scrub in if you want,” finished Guy, shooting Fletch a look.

Fletch glanced helplessly back at Sacha. Sacha could only shrug.  
“We don't have a choice.”

“Ughhh, alright, alright.”  
The look in his eyes told Sacha that Fletch was going to call them anyway, for backup. That was okay, so long as he didn't interfere. Guy had sounded a bit disappointing on the phone, but now he'd seen him in the flesh, Sacha felt cautious optimism that this was the right decision.

He started out of the bay.  
“C'mon Jac...” he muttered as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol get it? 'Guy'-s? Self and Henry (Mr Hanssen) :P


End file.
